


The Law of Opposites

by I_Lovetherain (ilovetherain)



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-29
Updated: 2010-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:31:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilovetherain/pseuds/I_Lovetherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The law of opposites says that, in the Universe, every force has an equal but opposite"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Law of Opposites

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: blinksgirl555 and foofighter0234   
> Spoilers: episode 8, 9 and 10  
> Disclaimer: this is a work of fantasy, the characters in this fic are solely inspired by those represented in the HBO TV show Band of Brothers

_The magnitude of the electrostatic force between two point electric charges is directly proportional to the product of the magnitudes of each of the charges and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between the two charges._ \- Coulomb's law

Joe Liebgott doesn't hate David Webster.   
Not even when Webster shows up after Bastogne, all big smiles and wide eyes. Oh, Liebgott has wanted to hate him for not being there, for not even trying to make it, but, he realizes, he just can't.

It takes a while for Liebgott to find a proper name that describes his feelings for the other man and, in the end, he finds it: it's annoyance.  
Yes, Webster, with his unrequested remarks about this and that, his dreamy eyes and useless culture, annoys the shit out of him.

Sometimes Liebgott looks at Webster while he scribbles in that stupid journal of his – smiling, always smiling – and wonders what the hell that Harvard boy has to do with them. Probably nothing. Webster is different from them all, even from Captain Nixon – the other elitist college guy.   
It's not that Webster tries very hard to be part of them, anyway. He talks different, acts different, and he prefers to be alone most of the time. Webster lives in a world of his own, a world where he doesn't let anybody in, with the sole exception of Joseph Liebgott.

For some reasons that Liebgott can't figure out, Webster seems to have picked him out of the mass and made him the privileged recipient of his rare attentions.  
And that's precisely what annoys Liebgott the most, because if a big part of him desperately wants to not give a shit about it, wants to consider Webster a spoiled brat who doesn't deserve an ounce of his consideration, a smaller, but more determined part of him is eager to take in this attention.  
This is an unwelcome, disturbing feeling because Liebgott doesn't fucking need anybody's condescending interest, even less so coming from a rich, well-educated, snobbish Harvard student.

So, as soon as he can, he pays Webster back with the same coin and works hard to make him feel uncomfortable, with little or no success.

Things change after Webster comes back from hospital, after months spent recovering from his minor wound – the same months they spent fighting, suffering the chill on the Ardennes, watching their companions dying. This time it's not just Liebgott, it's everybody. Everybody who survived Bastogne wants to punish Webster for not being there.   
It's easy, at the beginning, making him feel like an outcast; insult him and talk behind his back.

The worried and sometimes even hurt look on Webster's face is only a brief victory, though, and it doesn't last long. In Haguenau, Webster is somehow rehabilitated, if not by everybody, by many, and even if speculations about Webster volunteering or not for the patrol are still subject to arguments, Liebgott can't help thinking that, this time, Webster was there while he was not.

They slip back into routine faster than Liebgott thought possible, drawn to one another like magnets. They share the same rooms, go on patrol together, eat together, wake up and go to sleep at the same time.  
Even their bantering resumes the same quality it had before Bastogne: Webster talks to him about things Liebgott doesn't know and pretends he doesn't care about, and Liebgott answers back with sarcastic comments that don't seem to upset Webster one bit. On the opposite, they apparently amuse him: every time Liebgott interrupts one of Webster's dissertations with a sharp, sardonic retort, Webster offers him a smug half smile, turning up the corner of his mouth, looks Liebgott straight in the eyes, and Liebgott feels a weird shiver along his spine.

The discovery of the concentration camp in Landsberg force them to put the memory of Bastogne aside – not forgotten, that's not possible, but momentarily filed away in favour of a new, different kind of horror.  
In this, Webster is one of them. For the first time, Liebgott sees something alive and vibrant in Webster's rage and indignation. Being the only two German speakers forces them to listen and repeat things they'd never wanted to hear or say. In this, they are alone. They share the forced understanding of endless words, stories, pleas, dramas that their companions can't even vaguely imagine.

In Landsberg, Liebgott breaks down for the first time since he enlisted, and when he finally regains his composure, there's just one person whose eyes he searches desperately; Webster looks back at him, and smiles weakly. This gives Liebgott the strength to go back to his duty and pile up his hatred for the Nazis waiting for the perfect moment to release his vengeance with shattering intensity. When the moment comes, Liebgott thinks, Webster will be at his side.

But when Liebgott is sure they've finally found a common ground, Webster unsettles him once again.

Killing the SS Commander _is_ the right thing to do, whether it is an order or not. So why does Webster refuse to finish off the Nazi bastard?

Webster barely speaks on their way back and the few words he says are full of disapproval. Now Liebgott knows for sure what he already knew but, for some stupid reasons, refused to accept: there's no chance they can bond. Webster is and always will be an uncommitted, idealistic college boy who refuses to take responsibilities and see things as they are. And he, Joseph Liebgott is and always will be a skinny, practical son-of-a-bitch who doesn't think twice at doing what needs to be done.

It's two in the morning and Webster is still not back, probably hidden somewhere, brooding over the inequity of war and Liebgott's immoral actions.  
Liebgott is slightly drunk, bored and is also very pissed off at Webster's shocked reaction to the execution of the Nazi Commander.   
So, just to upset him, he starts rummaging through Webster's few personal belongings, until he finds the black leather cover of his precious journal.  
Liebgott doesn't even bother himself with questions about privacy or possible wrath. He just starts reading.

"What the fuck, Joe! Are you reading my stuff?"

Liebgott jumps; he's so absorbed in the reading he hasn't even heard Webster coming in. He shrugs, happy for the outraged reaction he's provoking in the other man.

"Relax, ok? You weren't here to be asked for permission, next time hide your things away if you don't want others taking them."

Webster's eyes go huge, huger than ever and his mouth opens in disbelief – _cocksucker mouth_, someone called it. Liebgott grins widely and hides the journal behind his back.

"But it _was_ away. And it's _private_; do you know the meaning of this word, Liebgott?"

Liebgott's grin dies immediately. "Hey, are you implying I'm stupid? Are you saying just because I didn't go to fucking Harvard I don't know the meaning of words?"

Webster shakes his head. "You're not even worth it, Joe. Give it back to me. I'll go sleep somewhere else."

This unexpectedly hurts. Liebgott throws the journal on Webster's mattress and kicks one of his boots with a bare foot, sending it stumbling against the door with a loud 'thump'.

"Why do you call me 'your friend', in there?" he shouts pointing at the journal. "I'm not your fucking friend. Nobody is your friend, Webster, do you realize that?"

Webster sighs heavily, his shoulders hunch a little but his voice is, as usual, blank.

"Yeah, Joe. You made it pretty clear already. I wasn't in Bastogne so I'm out. Nothing else matters, and there's nothing I can say or I can do that can change a damn thing about it, so, why bother?"

Liebgott can't just stand it. This unsettling lack of reactions, the way Webster takes in the shit thrown at him with tight-lipped resignation.  
Liebgott simply can't believe Webster is so resilient to what others – what _he_ \- may think or feel about him.

"You really don't get it, do you?" Liebgott hates the trembling in his voice but now that he's started, he knows he can't go back. "Shit, Web, you should be the smarter one here but you're such a loser."

The perpetual surprise in Webster eyes shifts slightly towards indignation. Just a small victory but it's better than anything.

"No, probably I don't get it. Why the fuck do you still care so much if I was or wasn't in Bastogne if you've already decided I'm a coward?"

"Because," Liebgott has to swallow the knot of rage that tightens his throat, "if you really were my friend, you'd have been there with me. For me. Everybody had somebody at his side. Malarkey had Muck and Penkala, Compton had Guarnere and Toye, Luz had Perc. Winter had Nixon. Even Doc Roe stopped being on his own and bunked with Babe. Should I go on?"

Webster eyes lingers on him for a while before he bursts into a harsh, bitter laugh.

"And that's it? Do you really want me to believe that you, the all-so-popular Joe Liebgott, couldn't find anybody willing to share a foxhole with you and so you're putting the blame on me? C'mon, please, do not insult me with-"

"I'm not saying I couldn't find friends to bunk with, you idiot! I could have done it with anybody. But... fuck it Web, they weren't _you_!"

And from the way Webster's jaw falls, understanding's finally starting to sink in.  
Liebgott would laugh for the comic expression of the other man, if he wasn't shocked himself from his own words. He can't believe he said them aloud, he doesn't even know he was thinking them until they came out. And now here they are, suspended between them, heavy with meanings, impossible to take aback.

"Fuck."

Liebgott just slumps on the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, head in hands. They both keep silent for what seems forever, then Webster kneels in front of him and, gently, disentangles Liebgott's fingers from his hair and forces the older man to look at him.

"I know this won't change anything, Joe, but I want you to know that there hasn't been a single moment since the day I came back from the hospital that I haven't felt ashamed for not being in Bastogne. Every single day I go back with my mind and imagine how to change that. Every single fucking day, Lieb."

Liebgott has heard this many times, but there's a significant variation now: Webster _does_ mean the words. The contrition on his face is genuine, the sorrow is real, the shame is real too. Webster is still holding Liebgott's wrists and, probably unconsciously, soothes them with his thumbs.

"Why?" Liebgott asks in the end, "Why didn't you run away from the hospital, like the others?"

"I don't know!" Webster almost shouts. He lets go of Liebgott's wrists, stands up and starts pacing. "I could offer you at least ten different reasons, but they are all futile so I'm offering you the most honest, ok? I think that I didn't want to come back."

Now it is Webster's voice that shakes, whether for fury or regret, Liebgott isn't quite sure.

"And why did you do it in the end? Come back, I mean. You could have asked some of your rich friends to get you out from this war and go back to your precious Harvard." Joe spits out the words.  
  
"I did! I already had my parents pulling strings for it. I was so close to going home, you know?" Webster brings his thumb and forefinger an inch closer. "But instead I came back, and I didn't do it for me, you can bet on it, I-"

The blow is sudden and swift and it collides with Webster's face with an impressive sound. Webster falls back, leaving an artistic red wake of blood in the air. He tries to grab the wooden night table for support but instead he drags it with him on the floor, breaking a half-finished bottle of cheap gin and two glasses.

"Shit." Liebgott massages his knuckles, they hurt like hell, then he kneels on the floor and offers Webster a cloth, probably the last clean t-shirt Webster has. Webster grabs it and presses it on his lower lip.

"You split my fucking lip, Liebgott, are you crazy or what?"

Liebgott shrugs, still nursing his hand. "You deserved it." He looks at Webster, daring to contradict him.

"Yeah, I guess so. Feeling better?" Webster mutters into the tissue.

"A lil' bit." But it's a lie; Liebgott actually feels a whole lot better. He takes the blood-stained cloth from Webster's hand and wets it into the puddle of gin on the floor, than he pushes it back over Webster's mouth.

"It's not that bad, the cut."

Webster hisses in pain and mutters a _fuck_ and a _shit_.

"Be careful of the broken glasses on the floor," Liebgott admonishes magnanimously while standing up again. "I'm going to sleep, I'm fucking tired."

He lies on his bed, facing the wall.

It takes longer than he imagines, he's almost ready to turn and see if Web has fallen asleep on the floor or what, when he feels the weight on the mattress and the warmness of Webster's body against his back.

"Don't bleed on me," Liebgott warns. Webster snorts in retort and Liebgott feels a puff of warm air tickling his neck. He can't suppress a shiver.

"Cold?" Webster asks.

"No." But he pushes back a little bit, until their bodies are perfectly spooned. Webster slips his arm over Liebgott's waist and rests his hand flat on the belly.

"Dave?" Liebgott asks after a too long moment of awkward silence. The little jerk of Webster's hand shows his surprised by the use of his first name. "Did you really mean all the things you wrote about me? I mean... You know..."

"Yeah," Webster cuts him short. "I really meant them."

Liebgott chuckles. "I knew, you know?"

"Knew what?"

Liebgott turns his head to look at the other man, the puzzlement he sees is genuine.

"That you were a bit in love with me. I mean, you are always running after me, you know... And then you came back from the hospital even if you could have gone home."

Webster rolls his eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Go back to sleep, Joe. And, besides, I didn't come back for you."

"Really?" Liebgott tries to sound totally unconvinced. "Why then?"

"Because it was the right thing to do."

Liebgott looks at the swollen lip and the traces of blood on them, "Yeah, sure."

Then he turns on his back, slips his fingers into Webster's hair and pulls him closer, until he can taste the blood on his tongue and Webster's eyes are just a blur of blue.

Webster pushes his knee between Liebgott's thighs, forcing him to open them. He's hard; hell, they both are. Words like 'sin' and 'punishment' try to clear their way through Joe's already dazed mind, but they are easily swept away by Webster's hand stroking him through his shorts.  
Liebgott grab Webster's head with both hands and starts fucking his mouth with his tongue, uncaring of the broken lip.

"Shit, hurts," Webster mutters, but he doesn't pull back; on the opposite, he sucks on Joe's tongue with such an intensity that Liebgott has to think hard of something, anything that helps him to not come this fast, like a teenager at his first wank.

Liebgott tries to roll Webster on his back but David is bigger, and stronger. They put on a hell of a fight, grabbing, pushing, thrusting and moaning. The room reeks of sweat, gin and lust.  
When finally Liebgott manages to push Webster on his back – oh, his face with the smears of blood, swollen lips and dark, wide pupils is something Liebgott will never forget – he manages to lower his shorts and Webster's pants enough to grab their cocks and pump them, hard and fast.

"Put your damn hand on mine, Web," he orders among heavy pants. Webster obeys and the feeling of having both their cocks sliding together into such a tight grip is too much to handle. Liebgott comes hard, pressing his lips on Webster's damp neck to stifle a loud moan.

He doesn't let go of Webster's cock. "C'mon Web, do it." He says quickening the pace. Webster closes his eyes and bites down his already battered lip. Then there's a warm flood leaking on Liebgott's fingers and Webster arches his back under him while he pushes hard, one last time, into Joe's fist.

"Fuck!"

They both burst into a compulsive embarrassed, giggle.

"Get down off me," Webster says when his breathing has finally slowed down.

Of course, Liebgott doesn't move and presses his knees against Webster's hips, just to annoy him.

"Oh c'mon, Lieb, I'm sticky."

Liebgott shakes his head, "Such a pussy you are." But, in the end, he complies.

Afterward, they lie on the bed side by side, sharing a fag in silence, not quite touching but almost.

It's Webster who breaks the silence, in the end. "Do you think that the others too... you know?"

"Sure they do," Liebgott answers with maybe too much haste.

"Oh, ok then," Webster says, but he doesn't sound very much convinced.

"You know what?" Liebgott says after a while. "Next time I'm going to fuck you."

Webster chuckles. "Yeah, in your dreams, Liebgott."

Liebgott says nothing, but it's a shame that Webster can't see the predatory grin already forming on Joe's lips.


End file.
